Everything Must Go

by Elizabeth Flock

  “Oh, um, I graduated a while ago,” Craig says.

  “Of course you did, jeez, what’s my problem? Congratulations,” Henry says, clapping him again on the back. “Any trouble finding a job? What was your major again? Your mom came in the store not too long ago and told me but I can’t remember. History?”

  “Yeah, history. But I didn’t really do much with it, actually. I’m working in the family business now. I guess it’s been about fourteen years now or so.”

  Henry hears a rushing sound and looks to the front door to see if it’s the blustery wind that sometimes keeps the door from shutting completely in spite of the tightened springs. But no the doors are sealed up shut. Henry pushes on, noting a physical really should be scheduled. It had been a while since his last checkup.

  “Yeah.” Craig is continuing in a kind attempt to fill the silence and to now put his old football tutor at ease. “I’m in the city. Banking. Same old boring thing every single day. But the ’rents are happy so I guess that’s something.”

  Henry smiles. “So true. So true.”

  “Next time you’re in town I’d love to take you to the club,” Craig says. “You play squash? We could have a game then grab a bite after.”

  “You bet. I’d love it,” Henry says, even though he has never played squash. “Say, what can I help you with today?”

  “You know what I need?” Craig says, looking around, “I need a cummerbund.”

  Henry sees that Craig has warmed up to him and he is happy he now feels comfortable around his old tutor, comfortable enough to be as forthright in asking for help. So many don’t, he thinks. So many are still cowed a bit. I’m glad, Henry thinks to himself, I’m glad this one’s not.

  “What’s the occasion?” he says, leading the way to the formal wear section.

  “I’m getting married, actually,” Craig says.

  Henry turns and shakes his hand again. “Congratulations! That’s wonderful news.” Can this kid be old enough to get married? Must have gotten someone in trouble. Poor kid. Trapped at such a young age.

  “The thing is I have this bow tie,” Craig says, reaching into one of the many interior pockets in his parka. “It’s small, I know, and I hate it but my mom’s bent on me wearing it. Belonged to her father and all. That’s why it’s faded and I wonder if you have anything that’ll go with it.”

  Henry is again happy to know Craig is confiding in him, trusting him with this task. Letting him in. He pledges himself to this mission of Craig’s.

  “Ah, let’s see.” He reaches for the tie and handles it carefully, it being an heirloom and all. Funny how Craig just bunched it up in his pocket, devil may care. Henry holds it museum-artifact style. “Yes, it’s small. Thinner. That’s how they wore them in those days. We’ve gotten to be a bigger generation all around, you know. Taller, wider, bigger boned.”

  He holds the bow tie up against the assortment of cummerbunds they keep well stocked at Baxter’s. The black silk is indeed faded and no doubt will become more so after being dry cleaned before the wedding. One is too pitch-black, another flat-out gray. The bow tie is in fact now presenting a host of problems Henry had not counted on.

  “It doesn’t have to match exactly,” Craig says, noting the differing shades of black just a wee bit off. “Frankly I just want to be able to say I tried. I’d love to toss it but Mom won’t hear of it. How about that one there, that plain black one. It’s close enough.”

  But it isn’t close not at all and we can do much better, Henry thinks.

  “Let me ask you,” Henry says, “when’s the wedding? I have someone I can call who could send something over.”

  “It’s next weekend so don’t worry about it. This one’s fine. Seriously. I’m so tired of all this wedding planning…can’t wait for it to be over, frankly.”

  Craig takes the pitch-black cummerbund and turns to go.

  “Are you sure? Because I could make a call….”

  “Totally. This is just right.” Craig stuffs the bow tie back into his pocket and this bothers Henry all over again.

  “Okay, all right,” he says. “What else? You need anything else? Cuff links?”

  “This is it. Olivia’s taken care of every goddamned detail so this is it. This was all I had to do. This and groom’s gifts. You should’ve seen her face when I told her it was flasks. They’re sterling, though, so that calmed her down. We compromised and settled on the block monogramming. At least there’s that.”

  Henry is surprised and a touch saddened to see young Craig already so jaded. Like he is fifty and has already been married for so long it’s the flaws he’s commenting on, not the rest: not the beauty, the love, all that.

  He would never talk about Cathy in this way, the hint of disgust crackling through every sentence like Morse code. He wouldn’t do it. It’s not a nice thing to do, he thinks.

  “Hey, good to see you,” Craig says after he’s fished the money from his wallet and accepted the change.

  “You, too,” Henry says, “and congratulations again. Give my best to the bride.”

  “Remember, next time you’re in the city look me up and we’ll have a game.”

  “You got it.”

  Not long after Craig leaves, Mr. Beardsley is by his side, looking across the store, temporarily emptied of customers, shaking his head.

  “I just can’t believe it,” he says, “after all this time. We’ve weathered so much, you and me.” The pat on Henry’s back is paternal and gives Henry a pit in his stomach with the realization that he has spent more of his life with Ned Beardsley than perhaps anyone else. Except, of course, his mother. But that is another story altogether.

  “So what’s going on?” he asks, but he is already catching on and it doesn’t feel good, no, not at all.

  “They’re closing us down,” Mr. Beardsley says. “That’s just between you, me and the fence post if you catch my drift. People get wind of that and it’s over before we want it to be. So we’ve got to carry on like nothing’s happening.”

  “How do you know they’ll close us down? Maybe they just want to change things up, move things around. Expand even.” Yes yes that’s it, Henry thinks, a surge of relief coming at the thought. “They could knock that wall down, the one that juts out over there. I’ve always thought it could really open things up, knocking that one down. Over there, see? If they pulled that out sportswear would be easier to see. Easier to get to. Seems like that’s the most popular part, anyway.”

  The pats are back and frankly they bewilder Henry. Mr. Beardsley’s determination to remain pessimistic is unlike him and it is unsettling.

  “It’s over, my boy. It was only a matter of time. I knew that. These past years everything’s going upscale, newer, hip.” Mr. Beardsley’s lip curls in disgust with this last word. “Rents are skyrocketing. The owners of the building refused to renew the lease a few months ago and the writing was on the wall. I didn’t want to tell you but that’s the way it is. Better you get used to the idea. Plan for the future. For what you’ll do next.”

  That wall could really come out, Henry thinks, and then customers would see yes they’d see we’re just as contemporary as everyone else and besides everything can’t be hip they’ll need the staples, the stalwarts of the wardrobe, and that can only come from here, he thinks in one jumbled thought.

  “I’ve put a down payment on a place in Florida,” Mr. Beardsley is saying. “My sister’s been at me to come down and this time of year it makes sense, that warm weather. Palm trees. Sand. It’s a condo and it’s got a spare bedroom so whenever you want you can come down and visit. Stay awhile. Put your feet up.”

  Henry is aware of his collar cutting into his neck and he pulls at it thinking he should really retire this shirt. It has not fit in a while. Today in fact he thought he’d give it one last shot, reluctant to turn it into a rag without checking one last time. But it is tight and right now feels like it is constricting the blood flow to his brain.

  He checks his watch and s
ees it is almost time to go home. He’ll think about this on the way home, he tells himself. Not now. Not with this damn shirt turning into a vice.

  As if reading his thoughts Mr. Beardsley says, “Why don’t you take off early, Henry. I can handle things from here. It’s almost closing time, anyway.”

  “Okay,” he says. He stalks off to the back room, to his locker where, he remembers, the Tupperware container that held his lunch awaits the dishwasher.

  On his way back he loosens his tie—the Westerfield tie he bought at the college bookstore before driving off that cold day for the last time—and undoes the top button on the blue oxford cloth shirt. By the evening’s end he’ll have ripped it up and gotten four good-size rags out of it.

  He touches the pocket of his gray flannel pants to be sure his car keys are there and takes the Tupperware and goes out the back door so he does not have to wait on a customer that might have rushed in at the last minute. Down the alley he walks, noting the Dumpsters, some new, some old, many jam-packed with fresh cardboard boxes indicating new shipments. Pier One sure seemed to get a lot of new stuff, he thinks, since the delivery two days ago. How can they fit it all in? Every damn surface of the store is covered with scented candles, napkin rings, rattan place mats, lamps even. And still they’re getting shipments. He turns into the walkway between that store and the one next to it, under construction but with signs over the brown paper neatly covering all the front windows—signs that announce the arrival of Barnes & Noble. Opening soon, it says.

  And now he has to double back up Main Street to where his Jeep is parked. Meters are going in. Identical holes in the pavement every few feet warn of the upcoming need for quarters.

  He turns the key in the ignition and the radio, still on from his morning drive, coughs up Santana, but not really Santana, he thinks, because it’s got this new lead singer who doesn’t know crap about singing. Still he does not turn it down so “Smooth” plays as he backs out of his parking space. He makes that right turn at the light and takes a circuitous way home, the way that carries him past his old apartment complex. It only takes nine minutes to pull up to the front of the low clapboard building. Many of the doorways still have wreathes on them. They never used to do that when he lived there, he thinks. But maybe they did and he just didn’t notice. The parking lot has been shoveled, as have all the walkways to the ground-floor units. The building superintendent was also very good about shoveling the exposed stairs leading to the second floor.

  They had been good about letting him out of his lease, he remembers. They had first offered condolences about his father and had not even asked to see the letter he had procured from his mother’s doctor spelling out the reasons she could not live alone, why she would need the care her son would provide. He had offered it to the complex owner, who dismissively waved it away as if insulted by the inference that he was distrustful of one of his oldest tenants.

  “No, no, don’t be silly,” he had said, wiping his mouth and working on something apparently lodged in a molar. Henry had interrupted his lunch. “It’s no problem. I completely understand.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you in the lurch,” Henry said.

  Henry had been relieved to know they had found a tenant quickly, before he had ferried the last of his things over to his parents’ house. Surprised at the new rent—so much higher than what he’d been paying, nearly three times higher!—but still, relieved that he had not inconvenienced the owner. The couple moving in was expecting their first child and Henry thought how nice it would be to think of them in this place he had lived in for nearly twenty years. The pregnant wife came by one day unannounced, apologetically holding a tape measure, so sorry to bother him but would he mind if she got a head start on some of the things they needed to take care of before moving day. He had given her the tour even though he knew she had seen it before, pointing out that the shower handle had to be turned almost all the way to the red dot for the hot water to kick in, just at first, then it could move back to center just fine. It was really only for the first minute or so and come to think of it, it was never such a big problem. She had seemed grateful for the tip and then waddled off to measure the front window for the blinds they were planning on putting in. The vertical ones were hopelessly out of date, Henry acknowledged with a shade of embarrassment that he had been able to live with them for so long. Horizontal would be so much better, he said to her. Yes, I was meaning to get to that, he had said. And then she was gone. He pushed aside two of the long dusty metal strips to watch her take the stairs carefully, holding the banister on the way down.

  After a few minutes he puts the Jeep back into Drive and wonders what they ended up having: a boy or a girl. He would like to know, to be able to picture the child—crawling or maybe even walking by now—in the place. He is sure they childproofed the apartment but maybe they missed the outlet behind where his bed had been. Then again he reminds himself his bed had been moved out and they had no doubt plugged up that outlet before moving theirs in—they seemed like such a thorough couple, what with her thinking to measure for blinds in advance of the move.

  Henry finally switches the top-forty station when Savage Garden comes on. That’s enough, he thinks. He prefers the classic rock one, anyway. But it is still in a commercial break (these commercial breaks get longer and longer, he grumbles) by the time he pulls into the driveway.

  He no longer calls out for his mother when he comes in the front door. No need. He knows she is most likely asleep and this buys him time to get a handle on what to make them for dinner. He should eat before going to the restaurant. Have some food in his stomach in case they invite him to sit and have a drink. He has noticed lately that his tolerance is not what it used to be: two beers and he really feels the effects. Does not get drunk, mind you, but how awful would it be to show up at Terra Firma, embrace Ted Marshall and then overdrink in a manner that might require yet another apology.

  From the freezer he takes a Stouffer’s frozen pizza—the French bread kind his mother likes (he is a thin-crust man but this does not bother him, this bump-up in carbohydrates) and preheats the oven before climbing the stairs to check on her and then figure out what to wear later on.

  “Henry? Is that you?” She calls to him once he is at the landing in front of the master bedroom that once felt so large to him and now seems suffocating.

  Ah, that word again, the screenwriter says. Yes, Henry still imagines his life would make a fine movie. Maybe not the blockbuster he had once thought but one of those arty, Sundancey things that are all the rage now. Something quiet but powerful. Something that carried with it a grace, a magnificence…dignity.

  Interesting choice of words, the bespectacled writer says. Henry imagines him to look like that actor on ER who was also in Top Gun but whose name always escapes him in its ordinariness. That is what the screenwriter looks like, though, to Henry. Why, why is it an interesting choice of words? he asks. It is suffocating in there, wouldn’t you say? She’s got things on every flat surface. Pictures in frames, piles of letters (mostly condolence letters but some old, like the ones Henry wrote her from college when he had pictured his father reading them aloud to her, both smiling in pride at the success of their golden boy), unread magazines she insisted on subscribing to: Ladies’ Home Journal, House & Garden (he had had to convince her several times that HG was in fact the same magazine just a new logo), Gourmet. It’s suffocating in there I tell you.

  There’s that word again, the writer says. It trips off nothing from you? Because I could sure use a flashback right about here. You haven’t had a Brad flashback in a while and it would certainly even things out on my end. Remember? Brad used that word that last fight? Well, not the last fight. The writer flips back through his reporter-style notebook to earlier scribbling he had taken marking older, deeper conversations. But the second-to-last fight, he says.

  I know the one you’re thinking of, Henry says. He is quiet and uncomfortably aware that the oven is on and has
heated up to 375 degrees by now.

  I have to go and check on her and then I’ve got to get dinner going so no, in answer to your question, it does not “trip off” anything from me.

  I’ll get back to it, the writer says. He is smug, this ER doctor look-alike.

  Anthony Edwards. That’s it. Darn it. Why can’t I ever remember that name? Henry shakes his head as he enters his mother’s room after a double knock to let her know ready or not he is coming in.

  “Hey, Mom,” he says, turning on a lamp on the side table next to the worn chintz-covered chair that has not been sat in in decades. He is pleased to see her sitting up, reading even, in her flannel Lanz nightgown. Her thin hair is a mess in the back: hospital hair, he thinks. Without the hospital.

  “You getting hungry?”

  “Not particularly,” she says.

  “I’m making that French bread pizza,” he says, “so I’ll bring it up when it’s ready. You should get something in your stomach.”

  Her head is tilted back down toward the magazine in her lap and when he moves closer he sees it is House Beautiful, anew subscription he had gotten her for Christmas, tying a note around the current issue, letting her know there were more to come. The trouble is, the magazine is upside down. He gently takes it from her and turns it the right way up before leaving the room.

  The frozen pizza clinks onto the cookie sheet. He slides it into the oven, the burst of heat feels good. The house is kept cold, as it has always been. Five to ten degrees colder than most households. The Powells had taken Yankee pride in reaching for lap blankets and sweaters rather than waste that oil on heating rooms that might not be entered.

  In his room he removes his jacket and practically rips the old oxford cloth shirt off in frustration at its failure to last. But instead of changing from slacks into jeans, as he normally does, he keeps his pants on and reached for a fresh shirt. Terra Firma is the sort of place that, while not exactly requiring a jacket, sniffs at patrons who come in with anything less, so he puts his blazer back on. The brass buttons had been cut from one of his father’s old jackets after he died, Civil War battlefield–style. They were good solid buttons with some type of insignia on them that made them look like they might even pass for a family coat of arms. He regretted not having asked his father about them for he was sure they carried some meaning. Once polished they looked super on his blue blazer, like he had a whole new jacket, really. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet door that could not open all the way because the bed got in the way. So Henry had to stand halfway in his closet with its high and unadorned light bulb (not counting the pull chain, but a pull chain is hardly an adornment) and even then he never really knew how he looked until he got to work because he had to stand so garishly close.